


Endless Grey - 9:34 Dragon

by wildheartmustang



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Chantry Imperialism, Colonialism, F/M, Fantastic Racism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, King Alistair, Mental Illness, POV First Person, Sexism, Warden Bethany Hawke, neurodivergent character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-10-29 08:26:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17804549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildheartmustang/pseuds/wildheartmustang
Summary: Bethany Hawke did not choose the life of a Grey Warden. For her, it was not a Calling, a desire or something she wanted in life. She had dreams of princes and silk dresses. Of freedom and being normal.“Being a Grey Warden is not a cure. It is a calling.” That’s what Stroud told her sister, and yet Hawke gave her to the corruption thinking it would save her. Of course the Taint never saved anyone - what a foolish notion.Now Bethany must endure what the Maker has given her in life whether she wants it or not, but the thought is always there in her head - “What if I can’t?”





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I want to say a huge thank you to [wellperhaps](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellperhaps/pseuds/wellperhaps) and [ Steampoweredstrawberry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strawberry_Requiem/pseuds/Strawberry_Requiem) for the beta reads, advice and for listening to me when I was on the edge of giving up and having a bad time. It's something that'll never be able to repay.
> 
> [Here's the song that the title is taken from.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9doenT0ebIo)
> 
> [ Here's my Pillowfort give me a follow if you're so inclined, I'm no longer on Tumblr.](https://www.pillowfort.io/wildheart-mustang)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Content Warnings Apply.

“I found it odd that you never mentioned the twin brother in the book.” says a woman with a strong Nevarran accent and an even stronger brow arch.

Varric Tethras is sat at a table in the cold, wet cellar in Hawke's estate that has long been abandoned since the destruction of Kirkwall's Chantry and the ensuing rebellion. Windows have been smashed and furniture, paintings and tapestries looted. Damp is rising on the walls. Despite the efforts of the harried city guard, there’s evidence that vagrants have squatted here recently. 

Varric is no longer wearing handcuffs, but regardless he’s come to the conclusion that Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast is making the interrogation process as uncomfortable as possible in order to guarantee his co-operation.

It’s almost working. Almost.

Resting his elbows on the mahogany table, Varric ponders upon the question. “Why would it be odd, Seeker?” he finally asks.

The candles flickering in the room strengthen the scowl on Cassandra’s face. “I thought that the ‘Tale of the Champion’ was intended to be written as a biography and yet you omitted that the younger sister was a twin.”

There’s silence, but Varric remains attentive on the woman while she continues. “The fact that the Champion lost their younger sibling escaping the Blight would seem like an important detail to exclude from their biography. Dramatic even.”

Varric shakes his head in exasperation. “You don’t think that writing about how my best friend’s sibling had his head busted in by an ogre right in front of her, for the whole of Thedas to read, would be… invasive? Upsetting?”

“You wrote an entire chapter about Hawke and the apostate having sex.”

“Ah, but that sells better than death and anguish! Or wouldn’t you agree, Seeker?” replies Varric audaciously.

“What I agree with is irrelevant.” Cassandra snaps. “There is the truth, and there is fiction, and you have used fiction to protect the Champion and her family.”

“That’s not so unusual surely?”

A vicious snarl crosses the woman's face. Varric could've sworn that he felt his heart jump a mile.

“I am _running_ out of patience.”

Varric leans back in the chair and tries to keep his composure. He has made promises, and today isn’t the day when he goes back on them. In an act of submission, he holds his hands up, hoping to at least give Cassandra the impression that he’s trying to help her and not just doing this to get out as quickly possible. “I told you what happened with Sunshine. You wanted the Champion’s tale, not her’s or the brother’s.”

“But she was there at the time of the rebellion, there were eyewitnesses-”

"I know, Seeker,” Varric says to calm her. “It’s still not what you think it is, but Bethany gets a mention later, don't you worry 'bout that."

The Seeker’s nostrils flare in an effort to dampen her frustration. “How long did it take you to find out that the Champion’s sister had survived the Joining?”

“A while,” says Varric.

“A while?” Cassandra asks in equal parts bemusement and confusion.

“The life of a Grey Warden is hard, Seeker. Sunshine grew up with fairy tales of princesses being rescued by prince's from towers, but she also grew up with everyone around her making the sacrifices just to keep her safe.”

“So she… broke contact with her family?”

Varric pulls a face and prepares a non-answer in his head, “Sunshine was never the ingenue of this story. I know most people wouldn’t give her credit for that, but most people don’t know her very well.”

Varric cricks his neck, trying to bide his time to evade the Seeker of Truth sitting across from him. “But, anyway it’s not my story to tell, and you didn’t arrest me and bring me back to Kirkwall just to hear me not talk about the Champion. So, let’s get to it.”

  



	2. 9:34 Dragon (Part 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to say a huge thank you to [wellperhaps](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellperhaps/pseuds/wellperhaps) and [ Steampoweredstrawberry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strawberry_Requiem/pseuds/Strawberry_Requiem) for the beta reads, advice and for listening to me when I was on the edge of giving up and having a bad time. It's something that'll never be able to repay.
> 
> [Here's the song that the title is taken from.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9doenT0ebIo)
> 
> [ Here's my Pillowfort give me a follow if you're so inclined, I'm no longer on Tumblr.](https://www.pillowfort.io/wildheart-mustang)
> 
> No Content Warnings Apply

It’s the last week in the month of Solace, and my travels with the Grey Wardens have bought me back to Ferelden for a few weeks or so to assist to the Warden Commander at Vigil’s Keep. When the boat docked at Amaranthine’s port on that warm yet breezy afternoon, I thought I’d feel familiarity coming back to the country of my birth, but it turns out to be more complicated than that.

Living in the Free Marches for four years, it took me coming back to find out how much I missed the people, the food, and the sound of dogs barking and roaming the streets. But coming back also meant that I had to accept that the Blight changed everything and when I walked through the streets of Amaranthine, the atmosphere was unnervingly foreign. I was born in a small village a few miles along the coast before me, and my family had to run away, and we settled in Lothering, but I remember little of my life there, and Lothering is now gone. Destroyed. Lost to time.

I thought my life would start over in Kirkwall and that myself, my mother and my sister could make a happy life; reclaim our family’s right to its noble lineage. As long as I had my sister and my mother by my side I knew things would be ok. Even with the threat of Templar’s and the Gallows looming over me.

Jean-Marc Stroud was the Senior Warden my sister gave me to and who put me through the Joining. I’ve been travelling with him ever since. He’s told me more than once that he regrets almost denying me because my magic has been indispensable. I’ve never answered him, mainly because we both know that I don’t want to be here and that his constant reassurance is him overcompensating for the fact that I should be dead. 

I was eight years old when I first came into my magic and learned that not all dreams are created equal or with the intention of being safe and familiar. When you’re a mage, and your magic first begins to manifest, the Fade starts to whisper to you in your sleep. I didn’t know it at the time, but it’s the voices of the spirits and demons residing there, and it scares you. Sleep, for most people, is an escape from the harshness of the waking world. For me, it was being awake and around my family that was a respite. I didn’t have to be alone when I was awake, even though there was much to fear like waking up one day and finding the Templars on our doorstep ready to take me away to the Circle.

Then, two months away from my twentieth birthday, I experienced the true meaning of terror when the Taint entered my veins. I almost died that day. Now there’s nowhere to hide either in the waking world or in the Fade.

Since I had choked down the darkspawn blood in that silver chalice almost three years ago, there are no spirits who can take away the images burned into my mind. Of the Darkspawn I’ve fought and of the Old Gods calling to me. The taint corrupted me and my dreams. It’s stolen every part of me.

These nightmares aren’t like the ones I had as a child when I wandered the Fade, and a demon would do it's best to scare me into submission. I would be left shaken, and I’d tell my father what had happened. He would hug and reassure me that none of it was real and that I did everything right.

Then there were the times when I would wake up, sure that I’d traversed the Fade that night, but my memory was fuzzy, yet I felt more at peace than I ever thought possible.

I asked my father once if he had ever experienced that. He told me that a friendly spirit of Compassion will find you in the Fade when you’re sad and lonely sometimes, and they will comfort you and take away the bad feelings so that you don’t have to wake up sad. Compassion, he explained, was the spirit who would be there for you in your darkest moments and who would never leave you to suffer alone.

As the years passed, I found myself questioning more and more if my father was telling the truth, or if he made it up because he wanted to give me some closure. Like when children ask where babies come from and their parents tell them it was the “Fade spirits” because serious discussions aren’t for children.  
I can’t help but think how spirits and demons seem like a convenient excuse at times.

Today, the nightmares are few and far between. When I close my eyes the calls of the Old Gods are more like a gust of wind against my ear. It’s a welcome relief from how torturous the first year was, but it comes as no consolation knowing that the Taint will eventually consume every last part of my humanity. But I’ve tried to bury that as best as I can, and I remind myself that it was my sister who put me here because she didn’t want to kill me with her own hands. I should consider myself lucky that I’m loved that much, but at the same time, all I’ve thought about is how much better things would be if I had died.

I could’ve died protecting my mother from the ogre when we were running from Lothering; after everything she’s been through having me for a daughter, it was the least I could do for her. Instead, my twin brother, Carver, died. He always wanted to prove himself in life, and he managed that in death. Since becoming a Warden, I look back and think just how lucky Carver was that he decided for himself when to die and what for. I don’t know when I’ll die, but I know I’m dying right now. I don’t know if I can ever come to terms with that, but I want to make to myself useful in the meantime. I do what I’m told and go where I’m needed and try not to make a fuss.

So here I am now, at “The Vigil”. The inhabitants of the Arling flocked to help rebuild it after the darkspawn almost destroyed it a few years ago, and over time it has been transformed into a self-reliant village. Some people left to go back home, but many more stayed having found a community. Most are the families of the militia who had found their own careers as farmhands, servants, tailors, cobblers, builders and furniture makers. Then there is Wade and Herren who ran the forge - well, really Herren did the running so that Wade could concentrate on his craft and complain about the weather as he did so.

I’ve been staying here for almost a week now with Stroud and another Orlesian Warden named Lucinde Campeau. We’re waiting for the Warden-Commander to return from Denerim, and the Constable from the Blightlands in the south, the latter having returned late last night when everyone had retired. The welcome from Senechal Garavel was warm, and the food hot and plentiful, which I’m always grateful for. Even better is that the Wardens each have their private rooms in the Keep.

At least no one else would be disturbed now I find myself screaming.

Nightmares torment me for the first time in a few months, and I’m suffocating under my bedding. My breath catches in my throat, and my lungs are desperate for air, so I throw the covers off my bed and sit upright. My feet touch a beautiful loomed rug, and I pad over to the window that overlooks the courtyard. Behind the velvet curtains, the sun is rising above the horizon; a brilliant orange breaks into the muted navy sky, and it hurts my eyes. 

Breakfast won’t be ready for a while, but it’s also impossible for me to fall back to sleep, so I dress into a plain cotton tunic, breeches, and my worn leather boots. From the bedside table, I pick up my grandmother’s wedding band. With a garnet set on the band, it looks rather dull in a poorly lit room, but in sunlight, it practically glows. My sister and I found it hidden with our grandparent’s will when we broke into our abandoned ancestral home in Kirkwall. I was shocked to find out that in death my grandmother no longer resented my mother for eloping with my father, but ultimately I’m glad that my uncle didn’t know about it. He would’ve sold it and spent the money on gambling, drink and female company.

Finally, I bundle myself in a woollen shawl to keep myself warm in the early morning air and make my way to the infirmary.

Truth be told, I’m not a healer. It’s a school of magic that never came to me naturally. When I was in Kirkwall, I picked up a couple of spells from Anders, who told me that the quality of a Spirit Healer is in how someone trusts and relies on the spirits they summon from the Fade. On the other hand, I have no such confidence in dealing with spirits the way Anders does, and I would have envied him for it if he didn’t also have to worry about summoning a demon through the Veil by accident.

Because of that, I resigned myself to herbalism during my time with the wardens. It helps people to know how to concoct a tincture or a poultice, rather than just learning how best to kill things. There’s a precision to the art that I appreciate, and it also gives me a chance to be alone, to lose myself in something that could block out the voices and thoughts swirling in my head.

I’m enjoying the peace, and chopping and crushing herbs until I feel a slight hum under my skin. No audible sound, just a strange vibration that I can ignore if I wanted to, but I know that it means that another warden is close to me; I just can’t tell exactly where or which way they’re going. When the door swings open I’m a little surprised, and a woman in her late twenties with pale, freckled skin, a small turned up nose and frizzy, strawberry blonde hair pulled back into messy bun waltzes in before turning to face me with a look of confusion on her face.

“Oh, sorry! I didn’t think there’d be anyone here,”

"It's fine," I reply with a polite smile.

The stranger neglects to carry the conversation further and proceeds to sift through the empty medicine boxes, so I carry on with what I was doing.

“Do you have anything for insect bites?” the woman asks eventually. And loudly. Too loudly for so early in the morning.

“No, the store’s been completely cleared,” I tell her.

“Damn!”

An awkward moment of silence follows and I side eye the woman, expectant of something more. I set down my knife and try to cut through the tension, “I’m sorry, is there something I can do? I have the ingredients to make you a salve if you need it.”

“Oh thank the Maker, would you?”

“Of course-”

“It’s terrible, look at this!”

I’m taken aback when the woman lifts her shirt and reveals the angry bug bites trailing up her stomach.

“Oh, my.” I choke out.

The woman nods and lets her shirt drop, “Aye.”

“How did you get those?” I ask in astonishment, as the woman scratches her skin absentmindedly.

“Just got back from clearing darkspawn in the Blightlands. I got bitten when we camped overnight in the Bannorn.”

I grimace. “I’ll see what I can do for you.”

The woman gave a brief grin in satisfaction, before holding her hand out, “I didn’t catch your name?”

“Bethany Hawke.” I give my hand wearily and receive an enthusiastic handshake.

“Warden Bree Mac Craith! It’s nice to meet another Warden, you’re from Ansburg right?”

Bree gives my hand back, albeit sore from the rough treatment. “That’s right,”

“So you’re a Free Marcher then?” Her question comes quickly. Bree leans on the table with an attentive look on her face. It feels strangely familiar for two people who only met a moment ago, and yet Bree doesn’t seem to care about that. It’s a genuine kind of care that I haven't experienced in my time in the wardens.

“Fereldan born.” I clarify. “I moved to Kirkwall from Lothering with my mother and older sister when the Blight started,”

“Highever local here. I was a Templar in Kinloch Hold before I joined the wardens.” I shift in my seat uneasily at the mention of that. “After King Alistair granted the circle autonomy, I was sent to Amaranthine and served at the Chantry there.”

“How long have you been a warden, then?” I ask.

“Almost three years. I was in the city when the darkspawn invaded, and the Commander saved the city. So when she came back a few months later, I thought I’d have a change of career,” she says with a coy smile.

“You offered yourself willingly?” I’m astonished. It’s rare for anyone to join the Wardens so enthusiastically. At best people join because it’s the only way to save their skin, contrary to the belief that we all join for revenge or the romantic heroism of saving the world from destruction.

She smiles sweetly. “Of course. Commander Tabris isn’t really one to push conscription.”

I can’t tell if that makes the Warden-Commander compassionate or clever. Whenever there isn’t a Blight, the Right of Conscription is controversial. There’s a fine line of justifying needing people to fight darkspawn and risking conflict to get those people. It’s probably why the Wardens don’t discourage the more… fanciful tales about us; so we get to keep a veneer of plausible deniability.

“I always thought being a Templar was a lifelong commitment,” I say, as I gather the elfroot and prophets laurel from the supply cupboard. 

Bree shrugs nonchalantly and perches on the edge of the table, “I never really fit in with the Order. It was my father who sent me there. I was eleven and a troublemaker, and he thought sending me to the Templars would teach me some discipline. I mean, I guess it did, but it’s certainly not what I would’ve chosen to do with my life.”  
My hand stills and I mull her words over. “That’s understandable.”

There’s a pause, and Bree cracks a sly, foxlike smile. “So, how did you end up here then? Kill a bloke and steal his breeches?”

My frown is harsh, if only because I can’t find much humour in the situation. “Too much?” Bree laughs, reaching under her shirt once again to scratch the bites.

I try to play it off. “I didn’t realise I looked like that kind of person,”

“You don’t... which makes you more suspicious,” said Bree flippantly.

“Riiight.” I drag the ‘i’ out on purpose.

“But in all seriousness - what do you do?”

My voice catches in my throat. Deep down, I know there’s no recourse. I have dispensation being a warden, and Bree is only formerly of the Order and has no obligations towards it anymore. It’s just that when you spend most of your life hiding, afraid that you’ll be taken from your loved ones and locked up for the rest of your life, you’re bound to respond a certain way. There’s a sting of fear still present. But I tell myself that regardless of how I feel, Bree will find out about my abilities sooner or later, so I take a deep breath in, and I brace myself for the inevitable reaction.

“I’m a mage.”

Silence. Anxiety flutters in my stomach, while Bree stares blankly at me. Then a small giggle. Then Bree falls apart with joy, and my nerves dissipate as quickly as they came.

“I’m sorry! Here’s me going on about Templars and Circles and you’re there trying to be nice and polite and-” She stops, and her face falls. “I just made things awkward didn’t I?”

I allow myself to laugh in relief. I tell Bree that it’s ok, she obviously meant no harm with being so open. I scoop up the finely chopped herbs, drop them in the mortar and crush them with the granite pestle. There’s a pungent, earthy smell from the elfroot mixing with the mild, fresh scent of the prophets laurel.

“If you don’t mind me saying - I’ve never met a mage who’s spent their entire life outside the Circle.” That doesn’t surprise me. It’s not as though apostates go around singing happy songs about how they’re not in a Circle.

“I just mean that it’ll be nice to get to know you while you’re here,” 

I open my mouth, then close it again, not sure what to say. All this time, I’d told myself to be comfortable with the solitude, because it was what I deserved and what was best for survival. But the idea of having a friend, someone who didn’t know me before the taint, even for a short while, doesn’t sound too bad right now.

“And you as well,” I tell her honestly.

“Oh!” Her face lights up, and her expression and tone of voice are somewhat theatrical. “I just remembered I need to go find my friend. Is it ok if I find you later for the salve?”

“O-of course,” 

“Great! I owe you for this though.”

I give her one last smile and wave my hand. “Think nothing of it.”

  



	3. 9:34 Dragon (Part 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here's the song that the title is taken from.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9doenT0ebIo)
> 
> [ Here's my Pillowfort give me a follow if you're so inclined, I'm no longer on Tumblr.](https://www.pillowfort.io/wildheart-mustang)
> 
> CW: References to drinking/alcoholism.

Steaming oats cooked in milk from the local goats sit before me in a bowl. I watch inattentively as thick, golden honey, the same colour as my own eyes, dribbles onto the porridge. I swirl my spoon through and mix the honey around, before taking a bite and sighing in satisfaction. My father always bought a jar of honey as a treat for me, Carver and Marian and we would try to make it last as long as possible. It reminds me of cold Satinalia mornings, of mulled wine with a spoon of honey in, of warm honey cakes served at Wintersend parties.

It’s happy and safe.

Just as I thought to myself that I would have to sit alone this morning, I come back to reality at the feeling of humming under my skin and the sound of a man’s voice.

“Pardon me, can I sit here?”

Our gazes meet curiously, and I’m looking at another warden and his grey ice iris’. His face is angular, and his nose is too big for his face, like a typical Fereldan man. Still, he’s tall, and I can tell that his shoulders and arms are well built under his shirt. I nod in silence, embarrassed that he caught me with my cheeks full of food. The nameless man gives a slight nod in appreciation and takes a seat on the other side of the table from me. He’s chosen a breakfast of cold meats, bread, fruit, a hard-boiled egg, and tea.

“I haven’t seen you here before,” his voice rumbles.

I swallow my food, so I can at least speak without spraying him with sticky porridge, “I only arrived recently.” I explain. “I’ve been travelling around the Deep Roads in the Free Marches for the past three years.”

“It’s a long time to be out of the country,” he observes.

“I suppose,” I reply, giving my porridge a poke with my spoon. “Though the time’s gone quickly enough." A half-lie. The years have blurred into one haze, that I don’t want to dwell on.

“Glad to be back?”

I’m caught off guard by his question, the lack of sleep catching up to me. “Sorry?”

"I just presumed you’re Fereldan what with your accent,” he explains as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Though I’ve always been told that I’m well spoken for a peasant, that’s only because my mother drummed elocution into us all from a young age. No matter how much my brother and sister resisted, even they picked it up. Personally, I didn’t mind. Part of me liked how, at that age, I could pretend to be noble or, at a push, a princess or queen just by speaking like one. 

“Oh. Right.” I stammer, trying to wake myself up. “I’m glad to be back. It’s strange though,”

“How so?”

“I guess- Everything feels different after the Blight, but I was still born and grew up here. I’m not sure if I can just ‘come back’.”

The man nods slowly, keeping eye contact on his apple while he uses a sharp knife to carve his it into slices without ever catching his fingers, “Yeah?”

“It’s hard to keep starting over and over again.”

“That’s a strange way to look at it.”

“What do you mean?”

He gives a rigid shrug, “It’s hard to explain, but I never saw joining the wardens as ‘starting over’.”

“Why did you join then?”

“The same reason why most people want to join us - purpose.”

I guess I’m not like most people then. “There are other ways to feel a sense of purpose,” I comment cynically.

“You’re not wrong about that,” He puts his knife back down on the table. “I learnt a long time ago that there things out of our control, and life carries on regardless. Just, I would rather be doing something, than sitting around.”

“It doesn’t bother you that things will never be the same?”

“Of course not. Why should things be the same, when we should be working to make them better?”

Ah yes, of course. I'm just sentimental in a time where there’s no place for such feelings. I scoop up some porridge and say ‘I suppose’, before shoving the spoon in my mouth.

The conversation between us dies without trying. The man munches on apple slices but doesn’t take the time to savour the taste. I feel like a deadweight just sat there with nothing to say, so I ask a question just to fill the space. “Did you just return from the Blightlands?”

“I did. Constable Roche, myself and a few other Wardens. No doubt you’ll meet them at some point.”

“I met one this morning,” I reply.

“Was it Bree by any chance?”

“Yeah.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. She’s usually the first to make herself known.”

“She’s nice.”

“She’s very amicable. She also doesn’t have a discreet bone in her body, but that's neither here nor there,” Nathaniel begins to slather butter on his bread.

“Did she show you her bug bites as well?”

“Sweet Maker," the man sighs. "She showed them to everyone in the company the moment we returned to the Keep. Her spirit makes her who she is though, and we’d be poorer without her.”

I breathe an inaudible snicker into my food, then just as I was about to ask his name, he beats me to it.

“I apologise, I didn’t introduce myself - I’m Nathaniel Howe.”

'Howe'? As in the old Arl of Amaranthine who once _owned_ this castle? No, it couldn't possibly be that, don't be ridiculous. The Arl betrayed Ferelden during the Blight and allied with Loghain, why would one of his relatives be here? I chalk it up to a coincidence.

“I’m Bethany Hawke," I say graciously.

“Hawke…” He says my name like he’s pondering its meaning. “You’re under Stroud’s command aren’t you?”

Just as I’m about to put the spoon in my mouth, I stop. “I didn’t realise he’d spoken about me to others.”

“Of course, he mentioned you in correspondence to the Commander.”

“And Lucinde?”

“The _Orlesian_?” he almost spits.

My nose twitches, slightly galled. “You don’t have to say it like that,” I scold lightly. “Besides Stroud’s Orlesian too.”

“So’s our Constable.”

Suspicious at what he's insinuating, my eyes narrow. “And?”

There's a moment's pause where Nathaniel stares at me, and the corner of his mouth pulls ever so slightly, as though he thinks me naive. "Guess I don't know her allegiances yet." 

"She's a Grey Warden, same as the rest of us." Really, I have no idea why I’m so riled up by this in the first place. I can’t say I’m particularly fond of Lucinde, I just get along with her because we work together and I have to. It’s almost guaranteed that she’ll create some kind of drama about something, or use her Orlesian hyperbole to great effect. 

"You'd be surprised, not everyone takes it as seriously," says Nathaniel.

"But you trust Stroud."

“I've met Stroud once before. Also, his circumstances are unusual. You’ve noticed that you’ve never set foot in Orlais despite his background?”

“I presumed that Warden-Commander Fontaine wanted us to patrol the Free Marches more closely because there’s no official command over there,”

“Well, I’m sure that is part of the reason.” **Crack**. The eggshell snaps against his plate. I observe him peeling the shell off. “Stroud was a noble and a Chevalier. He considers himself too involved in Orlesian politics to serve in the country.”

“He never told me that,"

“It’s not something that he remembers fondly,” Nathaniel states. “We’re only allowed to conscript one mage per circle, so having a former apostate to help will be useful.”

“Who knew Stroud was such a gossip,” I quip and Nathaniel chuckles.

“I served next to two apostates during the conflict in Amaranthine. It’s hardly an issue I’m bothered by-”

A dwarven woman named Sigrun interrupts him; she approaches him from behind and nudges his shoulder in a familiar greeting. When we arrived at the Keep, it was Sigrun who showed us to our rooms and gave us a tour of the Keep, and over the past week, we’ve become good acquaintances. She greets me brightly with a ‘Morning Beth’, which I return in like and she asks me how I am. 

"I'm ok, a little tired," In reality, I think I'm about ready to drop to the floor, but she doesn't need to know that. "Are you ok?"

"Itching for the Commander to get back so I can get to do something,"

Sigrun then nudges Nathaniel again, “How did it go?”

“Nothing of note, just some blight wolves," Nathaniel says. "Oh, Hyrum almost twisted his ankle.” I want to ask who Hyrum is, as I haven’t met him yet, but Sigrun and Nathaniel have such a natural banter that I don’t wish to disturb them.

“Ooo, excitement,” Sigrun remarks humourously, waggling her fingers in mock danger.

“It’s the most exciting thing that’s happened around here for three years now,” he says.

“Don't tell me you're losing your sense of adventure in your old age,” she teases.

Nathaniel jerks his head back, “Did you call me old?”

“You are old.”

“I’m thirty-three.”

“That’s old-" A hesitant pause. "-ish.”

“You’re not far off,” Nathaniel shoots back. “Have fun turning thirty.”

“Ah, but I’m technically dead and no longer celebrate my Nameday, so I stopped ageing seven years ago. By all accounts, I’m still twenty-one.”

Nobody speaks, but the smallest of grins tugs at the corner of my mouth. Then Sigrun snorts in such an unflattering way, that it makes the both of us giggle mercilessly at Nathaniel’s confounded look.

“I’m glad the two of you find this amusing,” Nathaniel retorts sarcastically.

“Oh, cheer up! Not too fast though or your face will crack.” Nathaniel’s eyes retreat upwards in vague annoyance, and he then continues with his food.

Sigrun takes a seat next to me and seems content enough to snack on bread and butter rather than eat anything particularly substantial. I ask her if she wants anything else, the wardens here can have all the food they want after all, but Sigrun refuses and says that the bread is better than most of what she’s eaten all her life.

“So, um. Who’s Hyrum?” I’m able to ask at last.

“Our mage,” Sigrun explains. “From the Ferelden Circle. He’s one of the newer recruits.”

I nod, “What’s he like?”

“He’s quiet, and spends most of his time in his room researching,” Sigrun says. “I think that’s a positive for being a Warden, it’s not like we’re doing this for recognition.”

“Though, if you ask him about something involving magic, you can’t get him to stop talking,” Nathaniel adds.

“He’s researching the Blight?” I ask.

“Something like that?” Sigrun replies. “He’s very secretive with what he does, he only talks about it with the Commander and Constable.”

I put my spoon on the table, having finished my food. “But he still fights the darkspawn?”

“Well, I watched him survive the Joining, so I hope he isn’t a figment of my imagination,” comes Sigrun’s impish reply. 

We’re allowed to leave our dishes for the pot washers to collect, after finishing breakfast, so Nathaniel and Sigrun go to join the other wardens in the courtyard. I decide to detour back to my room to retrieve my staff, figuring I might need it a little later for training.

I had a staff before this one I carry in my hands.

My father crafted it for me when I was fifteen out of birch wood that he collected while he was still well enough to work the fields. It took him months, working on it whenever he could, often coming home straight from spending all day on the farmland to do so. He’d be sanding and carving late into the evening even if he had to be up at dawn to go back to the fields. Then his health deteriorated, so he could no longer work. He managed to finish the staff before he finally died and part of me has always wondered if my father knew that his life was coming to an end and he didn’t want to leave without giving me something real.

I lost the staff - in the Deep Roads.

I woke up after my Joining, and it wasn’t there. Stroud couldn’t carry me with it, so it was thrown away to save me. My heart broke when I found out. Now, I bear a staff made of blighted heartwood. I have no idea how to even begin designing and building a staff, but we’re never short of weapon makers in the wardens who are more than willing to put their skills to good use.

Before I leave, I touch my pocket to make sure that the pot of salve that I made for Bree is still there, then I make my way back to the courtyard where everyone is gathered around the Constable Roche of the Fereldan Wardens. I’m immediately reprimanded by him with his weathered Orlesian accent. 

"Thank you for finally deciding to join us,”

“Apologies Ser," I calmly offer. “I was getting my staff.”

Roche merely extends an arm, gesturing for me to take my place amongst the other wardens. Stroud regards me wearily, while the other Orlesian I came here with, Lucinde, tilts her chin up in quiet acknowledgement, and I nod once and smile in return. I take my place next to Bree and touch her arm to get her attention. I hold the small pot of salve up and her face lights up. She thanks me effusively and puts the salve into her pocket.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice there's a female elf whom I’ve not been introduced to yet. She has a short and slight figure, however, to call her frail would be to mischaracterise her. There’s a graceful strength to her, with delicate facial features and huge eyes the colour of the bark of a silver birch tree that contrasts her dark olive skin and dark, wavy hair. A deep scar cuts her right eyebrow into two; another scar decorates the right side of her lips.

It’s also not hard to notice Oghren giving me a side-eye, the reek of alcohol penetrating through his otherwise clean clothes. “Hmph. Took ya long enough,” he grumbles.

I choose to ignore him and instead listen to Roche talking about finishing the preparations for the Warden-Commander’s arrival from Denerim tomorrow. Another two Wardens are returning with her, as well as the King and his advisor who apparently make regular visits to the Keep to check on how the rebuilding is coming along.

“Sorry we’re cutting into your drinking time,” Sigrun tells him critically with a low voice, not even granting him eye contact. It’s unexpected by how I've seen her usually treat people, but Oghren scoffs as though he’s used to it.

“Ya know I’m not allowed to drink anymore. Least ‘til lunchtime,” he replies with just as low a voice.

Finally, Sigrun looks to him, but it’s only cursory. “Guess it’s still hard to tell when you’re sober.”

Oghren slowly turns his head to face Sigrun with a blank, furious expression on his face, but she remains entirely poker straight, giving her full attention to Roche.

“The Commander will arrive shortly before midday. Full uniform is required. Clean. Everyone attends no excuses,” 

The elven woman raises her hand and calls out to the Constable. 

“What is it, Rohesia?” Roche replies tersely.

“What if I like, roll my ankle while unloading the cart’s today? Do I still got to attend? Or should I stay in bed?” It’s obvious that her question isn’t sincere, and Roche forces back a groan in frustration. 

“I’ll give you a cane, and you can hobble,” he says.

“What if I get sick and die? You gonna cart my corpse out so that the Commander and Alistair can see it?”

“Rose!” Roche barks

“What? I’m being serious,” she replies with a smirk. I can see Lucinde’s usually dignified expression scrunch up in disgust at Rohesia’s behaviour.

“You’re never serious!” the Constable snaps in a way that’s unnerving by how he toes the line between anger and solemnity. “You’re making an arse out of yourself, and if you’re doing this to bide time until Hyrum finally arrives, then you’re doing a piss poor job of it.”

"Do you want me to get Hyrum from his room, Ser?" Sigrun pipes up.

Roche shakes his head. "No thank you, Sigrun. If he decides to make an appearance, he'll have to just to catch up in his own time." He shifts on his feet and straightens his back.

“Before we get to work I'd like to say, that it's an honour to have Senior Warden Stroud here with us. I’ve served beside this man many times, and while he’s here, I want to see you all conduct yourself with the same esteem that you would with myself and the Commander."

An amused, yet sardonic expression crosses Rohesia's face as she laughs silently.

"Are we clear Wardens?” comes Roche's exacting voice.

"Yes, Constable," the Fereldan wardens all drone in reply.

“There won’t be training today. Stroud and I will be with Garavel and Mistress Woosley. So I’m trusting you to help the servants today, starting with-” 

He’s interrupted when Bree, whose attention had already wandered, calls out.

“Here he is!” and waves towards the tall and gangly young man strolling towards us. I guess him to be Hyrum. I get a better look at him when he’s closer to us; he’s the tallest of all the wardens present, with a strong jaw, warm tan skin, kind brown eyes and black hair that’s endearingly scruffy.

"Payne," Roche calls curtly.

The young man clears his throat, though it isn’t a cough that one has when they’re ill, it just sounds… ineffectual. And habitual. 

"Morning,” he mumbles.

"It's late." Roche rebukes quickly. "Where have you been?"

Hyrum coughs once again, and his eyes meet the ground, “Sleeping.”

“That’s nice. Maybe you’d like to take my position so I can have some more time in my bed?”

“No.”

“Then get yourself out of bed at the same time as everyone else. You weren’t the only one who came back late last night.” 

Exasperation flashes on his face hearing that. I can’t help but take in his face just a little longer. I hope he doesn’t notice and think I'm rude.

"This is your mage?" Stroud asks, placing emphasis on ‘this’. The question breaks my attention away from Hyrum's indifference to the situation.

"Timekeeping isn't his strong point, unfortunately, but he's indispensable for research."

“Which is?” Stroud asks Hyrum directly.

Hyrum stutters for a moment before finding the words. “It’s still ongoing, I’m not at liberty to divulge that information.”

“I hope you understand, Ser. The Warden-Commander is protective of information, especially with the position we’re in.”

My eyebrows twitch. 'Especially with the position we're in'? What does that even mean? Stroud presses his lips into a hard line, before giving a civil nod. “Of course, there are more important things for us to discuss at this moment.”

Roche nods, “Speaking of - let us get a move on, everyone to the carts.”

  



End file.
